Tears stood in the judge's eyes. “It is so,” he said, solemnly. “He speaks the truth. I didn't mean to tell it to-day, but somehow--” He paused. “The hounds!” he cried. “They deserve it! My daughter saw them crossing the fields in the night--saw them climb the fence, hoods, gowns, and all, a big crowd of them. She and the lady who is visiting us saw them, saw them plainly. The lady saw them several times, clear as day, by the flashes of lightning--the scoundrels were coming this way. They must have been dragging him with them then. He couldn't have had a show for his life amongst them. Do what you like--maybe they've got him at the Cross-Roads. If there's a chance of it--dead or alive--bring him back!” A voice rang out above the clamor that followed the judge's speech. “'Bring him back!' God could, maybe, but He won't. Who's travelling my way? I go west!” Hartley Bowlder had ridden his sorrel up the embankment, and the horse stood between the rails. There was an angry roar from the crowd; the prosecutor pleaded and threatened unheeded; and as for the deputy sheriff, he declared his intention of taking with him all who wished to go as his posse. Eph Watts succeeded in making himself heard above the tumult. “The Square!” he shouted. “Start from the Square. We want everybody, and we'll need them. We want every one in Carlow to be implicated in this posse.” “They will be!” shouted a farmer. “Don't you worry about that.” “We want to get into some sort of shape,” cried Eph. “Shape, hell!” said Hartley Bowlder. There was a hiss and clang and rattle behind him, and a steam whistle shrieked. The crowd divided, and Hartley's sorrel jumped just in time as the westbound accommodation rushed through on its way to Rouen. From the rear platform leaned the sheriff, Horner, waving his hands frantically as he flew by, but no one understood--or cared--what he said, or, in the general excitement, even wondered why he was leaving the scene of his duty at such a time. When the train had dwindled to a dot and disappeared, and the noise of its rush grew faint, the court-house bell was heard ringing, and the mob was piling pell-mell into the village to form on the Square. The judge stood alone on the embankment. “That settles it,” he said aloud, gloomily, watching the last figures. He took off his hat and pushed back the thick, white hair from his forehead. “Nothing to do but wait. Might as well go home for that. Blast it!” he exclaimed, impatiently. “I don't want to go there. It's too hard on the little girl. If she hadn't come till next week she'd never have known John Harkless.” CHAPTER XI. JOHN BROWN'S BODY